Mindful Living Blog on The Huffington Posthttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/mindful-living/
Mindful Living blog posts from The Huffington Posthttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/tamar-chansky/anxiety-attack_b_1751468.htmlTamar Chanskyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/tamar-chansky/anxiety-attack_b_1751468.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Sat, 11 Aug 2012 10:35:54 -0400wrong line, especially after you've done the exhaustive -- customers x coupons x cashier energy -- calculation of which line is most likely to move fastest? No matter how insignificant the activity is that you have to do next, you are incensed (and frustrated by your poor calculation skills) that you've had to waste even a moment of your time unnecessarily. And yet.

Look what happens, two minutes later when in the parking lot of the very same grocery store, your iPhone buzzes with a message from a frustrated client. You spend your entire drive home, your entire evening, and maybe even your sleep, reading into every nuance of his voice, the words he chose and take these as the starting gun to run through a myriad of horrible scenarios of what could happen: They could drop the account, we could be ruined, we could lose all of our connections, we could end up bankrupt.

Whoa there. Not so fast. What just happened? Has any of this happened? Is it likely to? Are there a ton of other possibilities that are a much surer bet than the catastrophic news feed running rip shod through your head?

No, none of these disasters are actually happening, though the knot in your stomach and the throbbing in your head suggest otherwise. It's just that you've been a victim of a hijack. Well, your rationality has. It's not an intruder exactly. It's your brain, your amygdala to be exact. As your built in 24/7 alarm system, it does one thing and one thing only: mobilizes you instantly to defend your survival. Which is great if the call you received was from a hungry tiger (or probably even a tiger who had just eaten), but not so much with a disgruntled client.

Oh, and not to keep score, but do we complain about the time we're clocking in when we're worrying? Not at all. We think we are doing something very important when we are closely tracking the anxious chatter in our minds and get frustrated when anyone (especially if they are cheerful) interrupts us. When it comes to worrying, we insist on waiting in the wrong line, the one that won't move, and we don't want to be disturbed. We want, it appears, to be miserable all by ourselves.

But how frustrated was the client, really? Was it a big deal or a little deal? Was he ready to bail or just asking you to change something? Was it manageable, solvable or disastrous? Who knows?

We do.

As creatures privileged to have not only a lightning fast emergency mode in the brain but a model that also includes a slower, highly-sophisticated thinking cap, perfectly capable of assessing actual risk, we are absolutely equipped to survey, analyze and problem solve -- in fact, it is our signature strength as a species. One hitch. It's not our first reaction; we could, however, choose to make it our second.

How do you not let your amygdala ruin your day? Turn off the alarms so you can think clearly. Rather than spending precious time being dragged around by your brain's first (and worst) take on the situation, get a different look. Take the elevator up to the executive suite in the brain and consult the expert -- you, these strategies can help.

Spend Time With Reality: Change the Question

Why would you spend the majority of your time safeguarding against possibilities that are highly unlikely when there are more much probable outcomes that could really benefit from your attention? Value what's really valuable to you. Rather than jumping on every insignificant "could" that comes down the pike, recognize that on the other side of every could there's a much more likely "could not." Or, "probably won't." Instead of asking yourself: "What's the worst thing that's going to happen?" ask, "What do I really believe is most likely to happen here, and what can I do to make it work? Then spend your time increasing the likelihood that this outcome will occur.

Recognize and Resist the Power of Suggestion

Words like "fired, ruined, broke" manipulate how we feel, but they can't make those things happen. Just like if someone mentions poison ivy and you feel itchy, you don't suddenly contract it, just because you thought it (and can almost feel it happening) -- it's just the power of suggestion. But no matter how strong our reaction to an idea, it is in no way an accurate measure of the reality or likelihood of that outcome. Remember, you don't need to think through every worry, leave no stone unturned, in order to have a sense of security. Realize instead that you are no more vulnerable to these risks just because they got mentioned. Anxiety changes how we feel, but it can't change reality.

Make Worry Wait: Schedule Worry Time

For even more ways to show who's the boss, rather than jumping whenever worry strikes and letting it ruin any part of your day, have it make an appointment with you. Schedule a worry time each day and set a time limit on it of five minutes. If worry strikes before its scheduled time, just as you'd tell a child that it's not time for a lollipop at 10 a.m., tell your worry it's not time yet. If worry time arrives and you no longer feel that your worries are worth spending time on, all the better, skip the appointment. If you do use your worry time, don't just worry: For every "what if" you think of, name 2-3 "what else's" that you believe are more likely.

Next time your amygdala attacks, be prepared: not for the situation, because chances are you know what to do about that, but be prepared for your worry. Make a conscious choice to not go on the wild goose chase anxiety can launch, but know that you're better off without it. Instead, downgrade the importance of worry's messages and switch lines. The one without worry moves a lot faster.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/martha-boston/wisdom_b_1760205.htmlMartha Bostonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/martha-boston/wisdom_b_1760205.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Sat, 11 Aug 2012 10:31:22 -0400
Recently I was driving in California in my Florida car with my Florida driver's license. I had just come through an intersection, and a school bus was stopped ahead. Two cars were in front of me; and as each car approached the bus' "stop" flag, they stopped, then proceeded to pass the bus. It didn't seem right to me, because I supposed that every state required drivers to stop and wait as long as the bus flag is extended; but I kept moving forward with the other cars anyway. When it was my turn to pull up to the bus, a line of cars had built up behind me. I stopped at the flag and looked around. The road looked clear, but that "not right" feeling made me hesitate. Cars behind me started honking. I waited, getting more uncomfortable as I saw cars now blocking the intersection behind me. There was even more honking, and finally I gave into the pressure and doubt, telling myself, "Oh, I must be wrong about the law here." I moved ahead, and within seconds a policeman pulled me over.

I apologized to the officer for passing the bus, and told him of my debate about the law. He asked me why I was in California, and I told him that I'm staying with family in California while recovering from a broken back incurred in a jump from a waterfall. I wrote in a recent post about that jump, about how I'd had a voice of knowing, a voice of wisdom inside me at the waterfall that told me not to jump. But I'd also had another louder voice, one that seemed to be grounded in other people's impatience and opinions and in my own judgment of myself as not courageous or capable or knowledgeable enough. As I spoke to the officer, I suddenly realized that there on the street, I'd just engaged in exactly the same process of not listening to myself that I had done at the waterfall. In both cases, I had let the loud voice of mind, emotions and opinions -- which I would call the voice of the ego -- overrule the softer voice of wisdom -- which I would call the voice of the heart. On both occasions I didn't want to feel like a wimp or a fool. I didn't want to inconvenience or be judged by others. In both situations, I stopped and looked, but I didn't listen to the voice of my heart.

To my great surprise, I found myself telling the officer all of that, telling him how I was trying to learn to listen to my heart, and how challenging it is when the world around me commands me to listen to it, and not to my heart. To my even greater surprise, the officer, with a choking voice, thanked me for telling him my story, and said that doing so was itself an example of listening to my heart. He related how he had learned only recently, after the death of his young child, how important it was to listen to his heart's bidding to spend more time at home, rather than his mind's and colleague's and society's urging to work extra hours to make more money. We talked about how lessons come around again and again until we learn them. We acknowledged the grace that brought us together to share our stories and reinforce in each of us our learning about the wisdom of the heart. The officer was gracious enough not to give me a ticket, but asked me instead to keep listening to my heart and sharing my learning with others.

As I drove away, I thought of the railroad crossing admonition to "Stop, Look and Listen." At so many crossings in life, I have hesitated and gathered information; but when hearing two competing voices inside me, I've too often listened to the louder one, the more popular one, the more demanding one. Slowly I'm learning to listen more deeply, to listen beyond the clamor, to listen for the quieter voice of knowing. It takes courage, but that's what the heart is all about. At every crossing, my challenge is to stop, look and listen to the voice of my heart.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-jim-taylor/declutter_b_1748165.htmlDr. Jim Taylorhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-jim-taylor/declutter_b_1748165.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Fri, 10 Aug 2012 07:54:27 -0400stuff"? If you haven't, it is brilliant and hilarious, and it exemplifies so much of what I believe about the over-filled, over-scheduled, over-thought, and over-wrought experiences that we now call life in 21st-century America. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of it. There is just too much stuff in our lives and our world and it is making us exhausted, sick, unhappy, and crazy.

Look at your life:

Schedule: Too many activities and appointments

Garage/storage: Too many boxes filled with stuff that you will never use again

Closets: Too many clothes, equipment, tchotchkes, and just plain junk that will never see the light of day

Stuff -- of the cultural, technological, spatial, temporal, psychological, and social varieties -- does so much more harm than good in our lives. It makes us stressed, claustrophobic, overloaded, overwhelmed, anxious, depressed, and lonely.

Let's take a closer look at all of the clutter that we fill our lives with.

The clutter starts in our popular culture which is replete with far too much content that fills, yet doesn't satisfy -- for example, reality TV, celebrity magazines, blockbuster movies, and video games. Popular culture in small doses can offer great entertainment. But in the large quantities most typical of how it is now consumed, popular culture acts simply to distract, assuage, placate, and otherwise anesthetize us from our real lives.

This clutter is also found in our technology that includes too many gadgets, hundreds of television stations, almost uninterrupted access to the Internet, a seemingly limitless universe of websites, more information than we could possibly use, inescapable mobile phone access, email, text, and voicemail messages, apps, and addictive social media.

Our world is cluttered, with too many houses squeezed into too small spaces, massive malls, shopping centers with big-box stores, seas of parking lots, and too much traffic. People everywhere!

Our homes are stuffed with so much junk, there is no longer room in our garages for what they were built for. And do you have a storage unit because you no longer have enough room in your house for all of your junk? Stuff everywhere!

Time is now perhaps the most cluttered aspect of our lives. Early mornings, long work hours, deadlines, commuting, late nights, too many commitments, activities, and appointments, not enough time to sleep, eat well, or exercise.

Then there are our minds, filled with too much information, too many choices, too high aspirations, too much societal pressure, not to mention doubt, worry, and fear.

Our social lives have become busier yet less satisfying as we spend more time trying to keep up with our "friends," "followers," and "likes" rather than with our actual friends and family.

We put too much stuff in our bodies because there is too much stuff to buy in our supermarkets and eat in restaurants too cheaply, not to mention the fat, sugar, artificial ingredients, preservations, and other junk we put in our bodies from the unhealthy foods and beverages that are too readily available to us.

The only things that seems empty these days are our souls, the one thing we want to have filled. But all of the clutter in our lives prevents us from having the time and space necessary to fill our souls with love, joy, inspiration, compassion, and contentment.

Why would we put ourselves in such an uncomfortable and unhealthy state? Clutter may, in an odd way, make us feel safe because we surround ourselves with high walls (of stuff) that protect us from threats -- real, imagined, and existential -- that we feel every day. Unfortunately, those walls also imprison us and prevent us from experiencing life openly and freely.

We also clutter our lives because everyone else does; we feel like we have to "keep up with the Joneses." That is not a very good reason, in my view. I think our goal should be to make the Joneses jealous. While they are overburdened, stressed out, rushing around, feeling completely hemmed in, and miserable, we're feeling calm, relaxed, unhurried, free, and happy.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-tian-dayton/a-mothers-letter-to-her-d_b_1739675.htmlDr. Tian Daytonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-tian-dayton/a-mothers-letter-to-her-d_b_1739675.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Fri, 03 Aug 2012 17:50:14 -0400good mom. In this journey we have gone from "barefoot and pregnant" to "super mom" and just about everything in between. Upon reflection...much of what we learned, what we worked for, stressed about and tried to gain.....might turn out to be, as my daughter suggested to me today, when I asked her to read this letter .... is the right to choose...the right to tailor the roles of wife and mother to more personal standards, standards that we can shape to the contours of our own personalities and needs. I found this letter by Dr. Donna Wick very touching....and thought I'd pass it along....

Dear Annie,

Ahhh Annie. How do I respond to you, my brilliant daughter? You were brought up and educated to believe that you can achieve everything at least as well as your male peers. You are smart, and funny, and loving and resilient, so I know you can handle my answer. But it's very painful to give it to you, because it flies in the face of everything I've believed and taught for so long.

I was wrong. You can't have it all. The cost is too high. As Anne-Marie Slaughter says, it's time to stop fooling ourselves. Like her, I realize that I've been complicit in perpetuating a myth of feminine achievement that I no longer believe. Like her, I have clung to the feminist credo I was taught in graduate school, and been determined not to drop the flag for my daughters. But when push comes to shove, I would rather disappoint my mentors than my daughters. Above all else, I don't want to fool them.

So Annie, here is what I've observed after many years of working with parents and children.

"Having It All" is a really bad idea. When you think about it, I can't believe that as a culture, we ever bought into this in the first place. And the fact that it has become emblematic of a feminist agenda is, well, sort of embarrassing. Having it ALL? Is that really necessary? Can't we give some back? It reminds me of a sign that used to hang in the office of my (male) investment banker friend during the glory years. The Golden Rule: He who has the gold makes the rules. Having is good. Having it all is better.

Of course "Having It All" has to be considered in the context from which it developed, namely the expectation that women and girls should be okay with less. Seen in that light, I am all for it, but for the fact that we all have children to raise. A culture that prizes the goal of having it ALL seems a bit, ummm... greedy and grasping. And as Madeline Levine discusses in what Judith Warner aptly describes as her "cri de Coeur";

Our current version of success is a failure... The cost of this relentless drive to perform at unrealistically high levels is a generation of kids who resemble nothing so much as trauma victims. They become preoccupied with events that have passed-obsessing endlessly on a possible wrong answer or a missed opportunity. They are anxious and depressed and self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. Sleep is difficult and they walk around in a fog of exhaustion. Other kids simply fold their cards and refuse to play.

I've spent almost as many years working with parents and children as Madeline, and I have to tell you; she's right. Families are depleted, demoralized and exhausted by this mad pursuit of external markers of success. It's a poisonous environment for our children who are demonstrating vastly increased levels of stress-related symptoms, and not incidentally, record levels of non-medical and prescribed prescription drug use. We simply can no longer afford to buy into the myth that equates happiness with success, or even more absurdly, "having it all." Too many children are paying the price.

Levine believes that as parents and as a society, we have reached a tipping point, and recognize that something needs to change in the way we are raising our kids. Certainly Slaughter's frank acknowledgement that she couldn't, and in the end, chose not to "have it all" is a beginning. At Freedom Institute, we work in some of the most competitive schools on earth, and we have begun to notice some changes in how the administration at some schools view being prepared for college. There is a developing awareness of social and emotional health and resilience as well as academic achievement. However, these schools ultimately answer to their constituents, and if parents remain focused on the Ivies as the Holy Grail, this initiative may die on the vine.

So my dear Annie, here's a new feminist agenda for you. (I am pretty sure that it's the women and mothers of the world that will make this happen). In this wildly unequal, uncertain and unfair country that you are about to inherit, try hard to make sure that everybody has some. You will be much happier.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-dukess/relaxation_b_1734779.htmlKaren Dukesshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-dukess/relaxation_b_1734779.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Fri, 03 Aug 2012 09:02:48 -0400
It all made perfect sense, until the weekend we invited along a friend, an intelligent and accomplished American journalist. After lunch, when we settled onto our lawn chairs to do little more than digest our food, he bounced around nervously.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"We do this," I said, stretching my legs out and closing my eyes.

"I brought travel Scrabble," he said. "Or should we play cards?"

At the time, I found it odd that our friend did not know how to do nothing. Looking back on it now, I think my jittery friend was just ahead of his time.

It seems that every week I can add another person to my list of friends who proclaim, more proudly than sheepishly, that they "do not know how do nothing." And between work-work and housework, kids' homework, school events and sports, exercise, errands, volunteer commitments (no, that's not an oxymoron), helping out aging parents and taking care of financial matters present and future, doing nothing is rarely a realistic option anyway.

But what's disturbing is that the more time you spend being extremely busy, the less comfortable you are when the music stops. The other day I got a text from a friend whose son was on my son's travel baseball team until both boys left for camp. "You're not going to believe where we are," she wrote. "We're at the game." Of the travel team her son was no longer on, because he was away at camp. I think it was not only team loyalty that got my friend and her husband to drive across the county to watch other people's 13-year-old sons play baseball. It was also the habit of being busy; they were so used to going to baseball games that they couldn't stop cold turkey. They needed to transition, to wind down and remember what to do with their own time.

My kids are the same way. They rarely have the opportunity to do nothing. If there isn't something they have to do -- homework, baseball practice, walking the dog -- there are a million things beckoning to engage them: the computer, the television, the cellphone, the PlayStation, the iPod Touch. They are so constantly occupied, entertained, online and in touch with their friends that they are at loose ends when you pull the plug.

Last week, as we were packing for six days at the beach, I shocked my sons by telling them they could not bring their laptops.

"But there's a lot of downtime," my older son said. "We'll be at the beach all day and when we get back to the house, what will we do?"

"Exactly," I said.

They did complain from time to time about being bored. And they still had their phones, which meant more than a little "downtime" was devoted to texting. But they also sat with their boredom a little, and lived to tell the tale. They played catch. They practiced shooting targets with the airsoft guns they can rarely use at home because of what they deem our unfortunate proximity to small children. They read books. They walked around and through the marsh, and watched ospreys nesting on a pole.

And they spent a good amount of time in the best do-nothing enabler of all: the hammock.

There is something magical about a hammock. It's not just how it rocks you like a cradle, but how it provides just enough semblance of doing something to do...nothing. What am I doing? I'm resting in the hammock. Looking up at the trees. Feeling the wind. Wondering if those little drips I feel are rain or if there is sap coming down from the pines. Pine sap? Does that even exist? How would it taste on pancakes?

You get my point. You don't let your mind wander because it leads to great thoughts. You let it wander because it needs to. You need it to, whether you know it or not. If you're lucky, it wanders somewhere interesting. Four days into our vacation, my husband told me he knew he was relaxed because he woke up thinking about evolution. Four days for the imagination to assert itself against the pull of work, the email, the iPad, the to-do list. How often do we give ourselves four days? How often do your children get that?

We all work so hard to help our children be good at things, but they are usually tangible things. Math and earth science, sports and music. There's nothing wrong with that, but we should also make sure they know how to not accomplish anything. How to be at peace with themselves, in stillness or silence. They should know how to do nothing, and maybe even be proud of that. They should be good at hammocks.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jonathan-talat-phillips/nets-of-being-alex-grey-interview-photos_b_1725936.htmlJonathan Talat Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/jonathan-talat-phillips/nets-of-being-alex-grey-interview-photos_b_1725936.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Fri, 03 Aug 2012 08:29:55 -0400global spiritual counterculture, one name rises to the top of nearly every list: Alex Grey. He and his wife Allyson (who is also a painter) relentlessly travel the world, headlining large-scale festivals, consciousness parties and packed gallery shows. At their most recent appearance in Sao Paulo, Brazil, they painted before an audience of 25,000. Quite famously, the two of them (together for more than 37 years) are more adamant than Johnny Cash about wearing only black in public and private.

Watkins Review listed Alex as one of the top 20 "Most Spiritually Influential Living People" the last two years running, and the band Tool, "America's #1 cult band," featured Alex's art on their most recent platinum album, winning a grammy for its unusual packaging. Grey's work features a rare alchemy of science and spirituality, where anatomically precise human bodies interweave with profound kaleidoscopic mystical experiences.

In this interview, Grey discusses how he turned from suicidal nihilist to visionary artist, the convergence of psychedelics and Tibetan Buddhism, holding together a marriage involving two artists, live-painting with Beats Antique and the Disco Biscuits, and his unusual spiritual portrait of Obama.

Check out some of Alex Grey's visionary art and read on for the interview...

When did you start making visionary art?

My art has always been in response to visions. Rather than confine my subject to representations of the outer worlds, I include portrayals of the multi-dimensional imaginal realms that pull us toward consciousness evolution. That is the nature of all sacred art. The arts are the perfect medium for transmissions from inner domains. My entheogenic visionary experiences felt universal so I looked for a way of portraying these directly. My X-ray figures reinforce a sense of human unity and the mystical experiences they undergo hold a sacred mirror to the psyche.

Who are your influences?

Allyson. We've shared a studio for 37 years and never run out of things to discuss. Decisions are made in a community of two. My father was a professional artist all his life who encouraged my path as an artist. Spiritual teachers and artists that have opened the eye of wisdom for the world, and visionary community builders have influenced my work.

You and your wife are known for your long-term creative partnership. What's your collaboration like and do you have any secrets for maintaining a marriage amid the storms of the artistic process?

The secret to our success is constant communication. Allyson is reading these questions, typing and editing the words that you are reading while I am painting. Our consciousness is fused into a "Third Mind." The process of our creation is an interwoven partnership with discussion and negotiation as the glue. A relationship succeeds when obstacles are met with communication and resolution. A relationship flourishes when we take the beloved as our teacher. Shared goals create a transformative interwoven path. Allyson and I chose each other 37 years ago. Then we stopped choosing and continued traveling one road in partnership.

How have entheogenic substances influenced your work?

I was a teenage nihilist on the verge of suicide when I asked a God I did not believe in to show me a sign. Within 24 hours I had taken my first LSD trip, seen the unity and luminosity of all things and met the love of my life, a goddess manifest, Allyson, my constant partner and companion. Journeying together we experienced a vision that further changed our life and work. Dissolving into light, we saw that every being and thing was interconnected, an infinite grid of fountains and drains of love energy. This changed our work in pursuit of depicting the unveiling of reality. Our artwork flourished in service to the divine. The Sacred Mirrors series and the Progress of the Soul series were born of this experience of life energy.

What about your Buddhist practice?

Buddhist practice might have remained outside of my field of vision had it not been for a spiritual opening through entheogens (God-inducing substances). Many who have experienced altered states realize that those visions catalyzed their spiritual growth. A fully engaged imagination is essential to the spiritual practice of the Tibetan Buddhist Vajrayana School whose artistic tradition is in service of consciousness transformation. Liberation Through Seeing is a term ascribed to a class of artifacts in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, objects that plant a seed of liberation in the mindstream of the viewer. To manifest an object with the power of Liberation Through Seeing is the highest aspiration for a creator of sacred art. An object with that power can be a catalyst for consciousness evolution and, according to Tibetan Buddhist teaching, can affect the karmic future of all sentient beings. The visionary imagination is the source of art and religion.

Is there friction between Buddhism and psychedelic exploration? Buddhist teachers sometimes warn against intoxication.

Classic entheogens like psylocybin, mescaline, LSD, DMT are neither toxic nor physically addictive. But because of their power, some people should avoid these substances. The convergence of psychedelics and Buddhism is the subject of the book "Zig Zag Zen," for which Alan Badiner and I selected teachers and artists who fuse the path of Buddhism and the sacramental use of entheogens. Trungpa called psychedelic experience super-samsara because of the temptation to get caught up in one's own visions. When asked if he thought drugs could catalyze spiritual experiences, the Dalai Lama replied "I hope so." Published scientific findings prove that over 65 percent of spiritually inclined individuals have a spontaneous mystical experience from a single dose of psilocybin. Many glimpse spiritual reality through a psychedelic lens, then seek meditation to ground their insights in daily practices.

Why do you think your work is resonating so much with the current transformational movement? Where do you see the culture headed?

The evolutionary agenda must include a vision of our light body and our higher connections with spiritual reality. The juice in the new cultural movement is the integration of mysticism with social action. Mystic states reveal our unity with all beings and things and transcend conventional time and space. The web of life, love, suffering and death unites all beings. A sympathetic embrace of the nature-field and visions of the beyond within awaken us to our part in the continuum. This realization makes social justice our responsibility -- informed and empowered by personal revelation and humanity's wisdom traditions.

You've worked with a number of famous musicians, from Nirvana to Tool to Thievery Corporation, even doing live-painting during shows. How does your visual work intersect with the audio arts?

It has been an honor to paint on stage and have my art grace the albums and stage sets of renowned musicians. Peak experiences on stage with musical favorites including Shpongle, Tipper, Ott, Beats Antique, Disco Biscuits, STS9, SCI, Ken Jordan. ... In dozens of cities all over the world, the Love Tribe gathers to share wisdom, art, dance, performance and music. Our association with this creative web of light offers an opportunity to serve a great community.

During Obama-fever in the last election, you created a portrait of the president, featuring a glowing, hopeful earth in the center of his third eye. How do you feel about that painting more than three years later?

Obama was the better candidate. It was a historic and important victory. The world embraced the election as a triumph over America's shadow. Some grass roots efforts proved that a difference could be made. The light of truth seems alive today in the Occupy movement, a positive sign that our collective conscience is engaged.

What are you working on now?

At this moment, a team of CoSMonauts occupy our studio photographing the last pieces for my upcoming book, "Net of Being." This is third in a series of large-format monographs published by Inner Traditions, starting with "Sacred Mirrors" in 1990 followed by "Transfigurations" in 2001. "Net of Being" covers the most recent decade of my paintings, sculpture and social sculpture (CoSM), and it's integration into the cultural body.

Since leaving our 12,000 square foot art and spirit center in Manhattan, CoSM, we have been developing temple grounds in the Hudson Valley. Our biggest project ever is creating Entheon to inspire pilgrims with visionary art, the iconic context of a growing community. Creating an enduring sanctuary of visionary art to share is the heart of our work. We encourage all who are inspired by exquisite temples that uplift humanity with their splendor to help us build a new sacred site for our generation.

Do you own any article of clothing that is not black? Just curious.

I wear black as a sign of mourning for the web of life and because of it's resonance with the transcendental void that precedes all creation. At Burning Man, Allyson and I wear apparel printed with my art. (Burning Man 2012, wearing colors at Area 51, Fractal Nation and Palenque Norte.) Otherwise, no, just black.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/andrew-z-cohen/teaching-the-spirit-in-a-secular-age_b_1720964.htmlAndrew Z. Cohenhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andrew-z-cohen/teaching-the-spirit-in-a-secular-age_b_1720964.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Thu, 02 Aug 2012 13:35:38 -0400disappeared from the sky above, and with Him has vanished any sense of that which is higher than, or transcendent to, our earthly existence.

The rational values of the culture that we live in may have freed us from the myths of the past, but unfortunately they have also undermined our capacity to have any faith in the unseen metaphysical domains of our innermost interiors. So any individuals who are bold enough or crazy enough to assume the position of being representatives of that which is transcendent, within this culture of secular relativism and scientific materialism, are putting themselves in a very difficult position indeed.

I remember soon after I became a committed seeker in my early 20s being asked by a casual acquaintance what I "did." After briefly describing to him my day job, I then proceeded to explain what I was really up to and what I was trying to attain. His puzzled look seemed to go on forever. Then there was the beautiful blonde I'd been flirting with at around that same time. All was going well until we went out to dinner one fateful evening and I inevitably shared my passion for enlightenment and higher consciousness and spoke of how fascinated and compelled I was by all the Eastern masters I was meeting and spending time with. That was the last time I ever saw her.

Awakened men and women are those who have recognized spiritual domains as being more real and true than anything else. But if our shared culture doesn't have the eyes to see what they see and know what they know, such men and women usually end up being perceived as irrational, self-deceived and deluded -- as representatives of the false. Indeed, authentic holders of timeless spiritual truths are often thought to be hucksters and con artists because they boldly dare to bear witness to the unseen.

In the ancient premodern world, that ultimate context was validated by shared myths and religious beliefs and was empowered by the supercharged energy of awakened consciousness in inspired prophets and seers. Today we no longer have myths to rely on to validate our spiritual illumination. I believe that together we need to create a post-traditional consensus about the great significance and place of Deep Interiority in the human experience that makes sense for our time in history. In order to achieve this, it has to be generated by those of us who have seen beyond the veil of appearances and have experienced those deeper metaphysical domains to such a profound degree that we're willing to bear witness in public. But to be taken seriously, we must do so in a way that points us not only beyond the myth and superstition of the ancients but also beyond the naïve idealism predominant in so much of New Age thinking. We must be ruthless in our rationality in order to authentically transmit the light of trans-rational Spirit in the 21st century. This is an enormous task, but our willingness to take it on will slowly but surely make a profound difference.

This is the scariest thing I have ever agreed to do, and believe me, I've tried some pretty heart-pounding adventures: I've rappelled upside down, jumped off high rocks into freezing water and rock-climbed vertical walls. But even though I'll be wearing a harness and will be attached by two industrial-size cables, walking outside on a five-foot ledge with no railing makes everything else I've done seem lame.

I'm not afraid of heights, but I am terrified of looking down at the ground from the top of a skyscraper. When I was in my teens, my father committed suicide by jumping from the window ledge of the 14th floor of an office building. For years, I've conjured up an image of him out there alone, and I'm hoping that if I can dare myself to walk around a high ledge, I will finally be able to move past the event that has shaped so much of my life.

At the Edge Walk counter check-in, I sign my life away. Two 40-ish couples and an older man complete my group. "Are any of you scared?" I ask. None of them is, so I don't tell them how terrified I am.

Marge Goldsmith leaning back during the Edge Walk on the CN Tower, Toronto

We pass the Breathalyzer test, and then don orange jumpsuits and harnesses. Christian, our guide, checks our harnesses three times, gives them each a final tug and leads us up an elevator to the 116th floor. We are clipped with metal caribiners to industrial-strength steel cables. "Okay, single file, follow me," he says.

We step onto the metal ledge. The sky is perfect: sun, no breeze and billowing clouds. Smurf-blue Lake Ontario glistens below us. The skyscrapers, which looked like glittering behemoths from below, are tiny Legos from here. A helicopter flies by at eye level.

"It's time for Toes Over Toronto," Christian says, He walks to the edge and demonstrates by stepping over the ledge with the balls of his feet suspended in space. "One person at a time." The man wearing black shoes is first. He gingerly shuffles his feet about a half an inch off the platform. Now it's my turn.

Purposely placing my feet over a ledge goes against everything I've learned about self-preservation. I hesitate and then take baby steps to the edge. I'll be okay if I don't look down, I think, but I need to see my feet. I plant my sneakers two inches off the ledge and stand there frozen. "Look down and enjoy the view," Christian says. Did my father look down? Or did he jump right away so he didn't see anything?

We continue forward, clutching our umbilical cord, the cable. "Now," Christian says, "One by one, I want you to turn around, squat and walk backwards until your feet are against the ledge. Then stand up, lean back and let go of the rope." Maybe it's because I'm facing the building and don't have to look down, but I have no trouble doing this. I even smile and make the thumbs up sign.

The next challenge is to move near the edge, pull on the rope, lean forward, stand on tiptoes and look down. I can lean forward and stand on my toes with no problem but I have to force myself to look down. It's like being in an airplane. A tiny train moves towards the railroad station. I notice how many green parks the city has. Maybe if my father had seen beauty he might not have jumped. But I doubt he thought to look because he was depressed. He felt like a failure and wanted only to escape his demons.

I look out at a puffy cloud and suddenly feel as though this ache, which I have had since I was 18, has finally stopped hurting. I didn't climb on this ledge to end my life. I did it to understand him. And it's not about my father -- it's about me. I am on a ledge as he was, and I'm not going towards death. I am embracing life. Suddenly, I'm no longer afraid to look down and can't wipe the grin off my face.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lorna-byrne/futility-of-searching-for-your-life-purpose_b_1719698.htmlLorna Byrnehttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lorna-byrne/futility-of-searching-for-your-life-purpose_b_1719698.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Wed, 01 Aug 2012 16:33:38 -0400
I meet so many people who are letting life pass them by as they search for this elusive "destiny." So many people think that unless their life is extraordinary, they have not achieved what they are here for.

We so often seek the extraordinary and fail to see the wonder in the everyday things around us.

Many people believe that angels only appear on earth at extraordinary moments, at times of great importance.

That's not my experience though.

I see angels every day; I see them as physically as I see someone standing in front of me. I see them with people as they bring out the trash, as they wash the car, as they walk to school. I don't just see angels when there are major events happening in the world -- I see them with us as we go about our everyday, mundane life.

To me, seeing angels isn't extraordinary; to me it's an ordinary, everyday thing. I have no idea why I can see them and others can't. I am just an ordinary woman, living an ordinary life.

The angels show me so many people who are failing to see the joy and importance in their everyday lives, because they are waiting for the moment to discover the "reason" they are here or "why they exist."

The truth is we all share a common life purpose. We are here to live each and every moment of our lives to the full. Life is so fragile, so short and every second of it counts.

Many people have a burning desire to be special and to be recognized as such. The truth is that we are all special. There is no such thing as an insignificant life and every life is unique.

Stop waiting! Stop searching! Don't let life pass you by. Live today to the full. Enjoy all that is in it -- yes, washing the dishes is part of your life purpose, so is listening to how your child got on at school, writing that report or smiling at a stranger.

The angels have shown me that people believe that if they achieve their "life purpose" everything in their life will be perfect. They will have no stress, no emotional or financial problems, no sickness, and no loss.

That's simply not true. These things are a part of life and no one -- no one -- escapes from them. Life can be very tough, but if you are living it fully you will always see hope ahead of you and you will find moments of joy, even in the toughest of circumstances. You will worry less and be much more receptive to the many different paths and opportunities that will unfold in front of you.

When you stop searching and start living you will discover how much more there is to life.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/teo-bishop/bread-for-your-table-bread-for-your-gods_b_1708199.htmlTeo Bishophttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/teo-bishop/bread-for-your-table-bread-for-your-gods_b_1708199.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Wed, 01 Aug 2012 12:22:00 -0400masa moving back and forth across my grandma's hands that woke me in the mornings. She slapped the dough in rhythm before turning the flattened ball onto the dusted counter-top, and then she rolled out another tortilla and placed it on the hot puela.

There was no better alarm.

In the pantry -- the jonuco -- she kept a giant drum of the whitest flour one could buy. The drum never went empty, although I never saw her fill it. There was always flour, somehow; always tortillas in the morning.

I learned how to make tortillas as a child, using my hand as a measuring tool; salt in the center of my palm, baking powder piled for two knuckles long. I ran my fingers under the water to make sure it was neither too hot nor too cold, and then I used my little hands to knead the masa.

My tortillas looked like Africa, and that made my grandma laugh. She said that her first ones turned out like thick, little Mexicos, and it took time before she figured out how to make them round.

We made tortillas together, my grandma and I, for tortillas were our daily bread.

Today (Aug. 1) is the celebration of the First Harvest, known by many Pagans as either Lughnasad or Lammas. For some, it is a day to honor Lugh, the skillful Irish god for whom the festival is named. For others, it is a time to take stock of all that has grown in the previous months, literally and metaphorically. It is a time to turn our minds to the eventual unraveling of the year, the slowing down of things, the movement toward colder days.

I'm reminded today of my grandmother's morning ritual, and I recognize it as the moment I first equated bread with happiness, with love, with nourishment. When I take out my rolling pin, dust my counter top with the whitest flour I can find, and make my daily bread, I affirm that my connection to flour, to the sticky whiteness between my fingers, is my connection to family.

The First Harvest seems like a good time to think about the meaning of bread.

"Our daily spiritual practices are like our daily bread, but the flour has to come from somewhere. I believe that when we are given periods of spiritual "harvest" -- like times of revelation and heightened sensitivity to the Divine -- we ought to "put up" some of that, whether by documenting it, creating a commemorative object, whatever works for you -- so that in times of our own or others' need we can draw upon our spiritual stores to give us strength and bring us back to gratitude."

I love this idea.

We are always making things in our culture, producing content, preparing something to be distributed through our networks. But there is good reason to slow down and experience the harvest; to recognize what it means to have a stocked pantry, a full table, a life of plenty. This is a time for us to recognize where our food comes from, but it is also a time to honor where we come from, who we came up with, how we were nourished. It is a season of appreciation, of gratitude, of the love for our elders. It is a time to make bread with our hands, bread with our hearts, bread for our tables and bread for the gods.

When we do this, we not only prepare for the changing of the seasons, but also -- as Adrianne pointed out -- we prepare for moments of need. By baking this bread we prepare ourselves to be better servants to the tribe, better children to our parents, better stewards of the land.

My grandma filled that bin with flour when I wasn't looking, I think. All I knew, though, was that the food came from her, the mother of my mother, and this knowledge was good enough for me. She provided for us through the work of her hands and the work of her heart an example of the simple, yet powerful connection to be made in the kitchen, in the presence of our hearth fire. She kept a good fire burning for us, and she taught us how to make our own fire, our own masa, our own bread.

And so I slap the dough in rhythm before turning the flattened ball onto my dusted counter-top, and then I roll out another tortilla and place it on the hot puela. With each tortilla, I honor my kin, the mother of my mother, and the Mother of us all -- the land, the Earth Mother, on whom we move, and live, and have our being.

May you make a good bread on this First Harvest.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rev-martha-r-jacobs/my-wound-is-deep-but-clean_b_1713901.htmlRev. Dr. Martha R. Jacobshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/rev-martha-r-jacobs/my-wound-is-deep-but-clean_b_1713901.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Tue, 31 Jul 2012 19:37:31 -0400William Sloane Coffin, former Senior Minister at The Riverside Church in the City of New York, preached a sermon entitled, "Alex's Death" the Sunday after his son, Alex, died in a car accident. Dr. Coffin described the wound he felt as "deep but clean." I thought I knew what he was referring to, but it was not until my mother's death two weeks ago that I truly came to understand his words.

As I had written in my last blog posting, I had signed a Do Not Resuscitate Order for my mother -- knowing it was the right thing to do since that was her wish (even though I hated signing "not to do" something). So, when her heart stopped, they did not try to resuscitate her. I am very much at peace with that decision. That has not made my grief any less, but, it is a "deep but clean" wound. I cannot imagine what it might be like for someone who has outstanding issues with their loved one who dies. I was lucky to be able to spend a lot of time with my mother prior to her death -- when she was both awake and alert and when she was comatose. I encouraged my dad to talk about their life together and to make sure that he said everything to her that he wanted her to know each time he left her bedside. He did so, so when the call came that the love of his life for the past 68 years had died during the night, the wound was deep but he has no regrets. He had visited her every day for five weeks at the rehab. He sat with her, talked with her, helped her to eat and, when she was not conscious, held her hand and talked to her. The staff at the rehab commented on how deep their love was because of his steadfast daily visits with her. I am not romanticizing his grief. It is deep and it is ever-present for him. But he has no regrets.

Nor have I. My mother and I said "I love you" whenever we talked on the phone or saw each other, so I know that she knew that I loved her dearly and I know that she loved me dearly as well. As the youngest daughter, we had our own special bond. In the last year, as her health has failed, we had talked about many things in my life that had been questions for me as I was growing up, so there are no "left undone" conversations that needed to be handled before she died.

While my dad did not want me to talk to my mother about her dying -- he was afraid that she would give up hope, and so I honored his wish -- I think that my mother knew that her time was coming to an end. She was a retired nurse and was aware of the organs in her body that were not functioning so well any more and I believe she knew that it was only a matter of time before they failed. So, I did what I would have done as a chaplain with any family member I was present with: I encouraged her to talk about her life and her disappointments as well as those things that brought her the greatest satisfaction. We laughed together, cried together and at times, just sat holding hands. One time she asked if I was praying for her, because I had my head down. I said, "No, but if I was going to pray for you, what would you want me to pray for?" She said that she wanted me to pray that she would "get out of here (the hospital) and get home," so that I could come down to Florida and spend time with her when she was not in the hospital. I said that I would pray for that, and did. She moved to a rehab and never left there, but I was able to spend time with her there. My wound is deep, but it is clean.

I am writing about this because I have been present with family members when there have been unresolved issues with a loved one who is dying. The pain of that lack of resolution is palpable. I have learned from my years of being present with other families, the importance of dealing with those issues before the person dies, if at all possible. Whether or not the person is conscious, I believe that the person dying can hear what we are saying, and so I encourage people to let their loved one know what is on their heart. Whether it is to seek forgiveness or to say "I love you" or "thank you" or whatever is on their heart, I try to help family members have those conversations. Of course, it is easier if things are said and dealt with when people are healthy and can have two-way "healing" around issues, but often, we are not willing to do that, which is unfortunate, because it makes that final conversation, when one is possible, much, much harder.

Healing can happen at the bedside of someone who is dying -- the definition of healing is different, though. There can be healing of relationships, forgiveness sought and forgiveness given, healing of old wounds and hurts, and spiritual healing. Physical healing is no longer possible -- but that doesn't mean that significant healing can't happen. When people are open to a different kind of healing, amazing things can and do happen when we least expect them -- when a loved one is dying. Then, as Dr. Coffin pointed out in his sermon in 1983, it will be possible for the wound to be deep, but clean.

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/verity-a-jones/church-social-media-and-chautauqua_b_1724884.htmlVerity A. Joneshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/verity-a-jones/church-social-media-and-chautauqua_b_1724884.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Tue, 31 Jul 2012 14:41:41 -0400I've been invited by the Department of Religion at Chautauqua Institution to lecture next week on the theme "Digital Identity." In addition to sharing some of the theological reflection emerging from my work with the New Media Project at Union Theological Seminary, I will also tell some stories from the project's case studies about how religious communities are using social media. Stories like this:

Last August in a basement room at Duke Divinity School, 13 clergywomen gathered for the annual face-to-face board meeting of The Young Clergy Women Project (TYCWP). They came from across the United States to Durham, North Carolina, to plan for the life and work of this new online clergy network. Perhaps more importantly, the women came to enjoy in person the support and encouragement they share online throughout the year. But these board members did not shove their laptops and iPads under their seats so to better relish the warm hugs and smiles of old and new friends. Computers popped open and tapping ensued, along with the bear hug embraces you would expect at any long-standing family reunion.

Everything this group does, it does online. Bylaws and minutes, blogs and e-zines, registration, and even visioning exercises are handled through the "thickening web of interconnectivity" as New Media Research Fellow Kathryn Reklis said in a blog post last August. No one asked the women to 'shut their computers and turn off their cell phones because the real meeting is about to start, and you don't want to miss something important by hiding your head behind a screen!' The two and a half day meeting was conducted to an orchestra of clicking and dinging and the ironic asides so common to online communication. But no one thought it strange or disrespectful. No one wondered who was tuning out or ignoring the person speaking. They held a virtual and face-to-face meeting all at once. And it was the most fully present gathering I've attended in a long time.

On the final day of the board meeting, we moved to Scribblar so that absent board members could be present for the all-important "voting" on organizational issues. I thought perhaps this more formal day might bring a more formal air. Instead, constant chatter persisted throughout the meeting, both that gentle whispering of old friends and the incessant tapping of young leaders who inhabit a digital world. Someone needed access to the agenda on Google docs. Another requested the link to that book on parenting. While she was Tweeting about the meeting, one of the co-chairs found an absent board member Tweeting as well. She had forgotten to sign onto Scribblar for the live chat section of the agenda that connected those present in Durham with the six or seven who couldn't make it in person. Soon the missing board member's icon appeared in the chat room. Minutes later, another board member looked up from her computer with mild panic in her eyes after watching the wild machinations of the stock market; a few prayers for the nations and for the poor were posted on Facebook.

Identity has long been a theme in religion studies and religious thought and practice. How might something like "digital identity" be shaping and reshaping religious life today?

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kim-michele-richardson/finding-your-spirituality-in-esthers-garden_b_1714795.htmlKim Michele Richardsonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kim-michele-richardson/finding-your-spirituality-in-esthers-garden_b_1714795.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Tue, 31 Jul 2012 12:23:41 -0400
Seventeen-year-old Maura Reilly-Ulmanek, a senior at Lafayette High School in Lexington, Ky., says she feels religion and spirituality can be experienced in their purest forms in nature. And last month, she captured the everyday spirit of God in a small garden. In doing so, she won a trip to Carnegie Hall in New York City, where she attended the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards ceremony with keynote speaker Meryl Streep. Maura brought home a gold medal for her stunning poem, "esther's garden."

The Kentucky teen received inspiration for "esther's garden" while tending to neighbor Esther Hurlburt's garden. "I was really inspired by the beauty of her garden along with some spiritual concepts I was considering at the time," said Maura.

Esther Hurlburt is a kind and cheerful gentlewoman, a 56-year-old nurse who is an ordained Unitarian Universalist community minister who practices ministry in the community at large. She is also a geriatric care manager. An advocate for the aging, she founded The Legacy Home Ministry, a cooperative living arrangement for aging women of limited means.

Esther spoke modestly about her garden, calling it a small hodge-podge of flowers, vegetables and herbs, yard sculptures and a koi pond. She is thrilled the garden gave attention to Maura and her work, saying she cried when she first read the poem. She describes Maura as a humble and talented teen who helps her by cat sitting and watering the garden when she is away. "I think it was by grace that Maura found inspiration in my garden. I am honored to be the recipient," Esther said. She only hopes Maura will get to attend one of her dream colleges: Columbia or Yale.

Esther is also very happy that people love the poem and suggested that perhaps the reason is because "It speaks to our Spirits rather than to our intellect. It speaks to a universal element in humanity that seeks connection with God, however it is we understand God. Her gift was capturing this longing in poetry. In theological terms, she describes all things are of God and God is in all things."

esther's garden

i wish you could have seenmother teresa holding handswith Him for the first timetheir soft fingertipstasting of lavenderand lemongrass i've tried to tell father danielthat esther's rain-glazed benchesare as good as any pewsand i'd like to feel moss andsoil under my kneeswhen i stoop to pray you'd think she's tryingto teach all things to speakin latin greek and love can't the black-eyed susanssay amen?let the junebugsbaptize us with rain waterwe'll whisper our confessionsto the steady koi the cicadas humthe sweetest sermonsyou'll ever hearlisten they'll coaxthe hallelujahfrom your lips i don't know much about the biblebut you can't tell methat He hasn't written His willin spiderwebs and slug trailsthat we weren't each bornwith a little eden in our bonesteaching us to danceto the holy murmurof what is here--Maura Reilly-Ulmanek

Maura gives all of us a gift and a wonderful opportunity to deeply appreciate, connect with, and explore spirituality's most profound gifts. From her insight, we receive exquisite treasure -- pure and evocative soul-searching prose poetry -- a precious message that I'm going to frame for my desk. If I ever find myself feeling religious empty or in need of nature's holiness, I'm going to visit esther's garden.

Photo by Kim Michele Richardson

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-endlich-heffernan/why-are-mommy-bloggers-so_b_1721045.htmlLisa Endlich Heffernanhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-endlich-heffernan/why-are-mommy-bloggers-so_b_1721045.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Tue, 31 Jul 2012 11:31:05 -0400The web site abcnews.com recently published an article about disciplining kids and how to avoid spoiling them. The author, a mother with a very young child, interviewed a number of parents whose children were all under 10. Each gave her considered advice on how her style of punishment had worked. If you are still parenting on the easy side of adolescence, how do you know your method of discipline has worked? Isn't the test of parenting what happens as our children escape our grip?

Mashable has weighed in on the subject of mommy blogging, citing statistics from Scarborough Research. The average mommy blogger is 37, relatively wealthy and has children who have not yet hit middle school, it reports. Some 14 percent of all moms contribute to or read blogs and 89 percent of those have children between the ages of 2 and 11. The average household income of a mommy blogger is $84,000 -- or $14,000 above the average income for non-blogging moms. While they are likely to be any place on the political spectrum, they are, according to Mashable, more socially conscious and more likely to volunteer their time than non-blogging moms.

Why don't older moms, those with teens and young adults, blog more? Why aren't these been-there-done-that moms sharing their wisdom with those just starting out on the journey?

Blogging involves getting up close and personal in social networking. It requires that you be fluent in Pinterest and Twitter and Facebook. It requires a familiarity with Wordpress or Blogger or Tumblr and if you really want to do it right, SEO, CSS and HTML. To younger women the internet is meat and potatoes, the stuff their social lives have been made of since they were in high school. They got onto Facebook when it launched in 2004 and they never got off. For those of us a touch older, joining Facebook was a real decision.

Secondly, big kids are not as cute. They just aren't. Cuteness peaks at three and pretty much goes downhill from there. So if your youngest is, say, 14 or 18, there is not much cuteness left in your house and this will quickly be revealed in any photos included on your blog. Older kids are striking in their youthful beauty but this just doesn't compare to an adorable toddler. If you don't think I am right, check out your Christmas card photos this year.

Little kids, little problems, big kids ... and the cuteness isn't just physical. Little kids say and do cute things. They come into our rooms at night and make adorable excuses to get into our beds. When big kids come into our bedrooms at night it is because they have to tell us such bad news that it cannot wait until morning. In the morning sharing this big bout of bad news with our blog readers is the last thing we feel like doing.

Blogging can involve oversharing, deliberate or otherwise, and to a generation raised on worrying about their "permanent record" it sets alarm bells ringing. To those over 45 or 50, splaying your personal life across the internet can look hopelessly self-indulgent and potentially damaging to your or your spouse's career. To those under life's halfway mark, it is entirely unremarkable.

Or, just maybe, it hasn't all turned out a bed of roses. It is much easier to blog about parenthood when it is all sitting out in front of you, a pristine panorama of possibilities where the mistakes have not been made and the missteps are so small that they are still undetectable. With older kids our mistakes and misjudgments have been revealed and sometimes it is a glare we just don't want to stare into.

If it has turned out great, and the kid is in college or graduating, or living with a great guy, or on the verge of marriage or holding down a great job ... wise moms, with the full knowledge that it might not have been this way think, there by the grace ... and tread quietly.

Moms over 45 may have never read a blog, or if they have, they may think that bad language and ridiculing family members are de rigueur. Our demographic gets restaurant suggestions from real live people and the newspaper is still delivered and sitting soggy in our driveway -- are we really ready to give parenting advice online?

You might have thought that young moms blog more because they think a lot more about parenting than those who have been at it for a while, but that would be wrong. Parenting, we have discovered, never ends.

The wisdom of parenting resides in the hearts and minds of mothers (and fathers) who have made the journey and we hope they will share this bounty with those just starting out.

Time is on the side of the older mommy blogger if for no other reason than those young, trendsetting, trailblazing young mommy bloggers, the ones who established this fascinating industry through dint of hard work, brains and inventiveness ... with the march of time, are coming our way.

Earlier
on Huff/Post50:

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]]>http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marie-marley/an-alzheimers-love-story-please-wear-a-tux_b_1692156.htmlMarie Marleyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/marie-marley/an-alzheimers-love-story-please-wear-a-tux_b_1692156.html?utm_hp_ref=mindful-living&ir=Mindful+Living
Tue, 31 Jul 2012 07:51:28 -0400
I was extremely nervous about the whole plan, worrying that Ed might be in a bad mood and tell Don to leave. After fretting about it for a few days, I decided to take the chance and go ahead despite my reservations. The concert would either bring Ed great joy or be a total disaster. That was just the way it was when you were dealing with a person with dementia.

When I arrived at Ed's room on the day of the concert, I was relieved to see the aide had him shaved and nicely dressed in a light blue shirt and his grey tweed sport coat, the one with leather patches on the elbows. Believe it or not, it was the same sport coat he was wearing the day I met him way back in 1975.

At the appointed time I went down to the lobby to meet Don. I introduced myself and then we walked toward Ed's room. I was about to learn how Ed was going to receive Don. Our entrance startled Ed and he jerked to attention. I introduced them and told Ed that Don was going to play a special violin concert for him.

"Oh. Superb! Wonderful! I'm honored!" Ed said as he shook Don's hand.

I had the feeling Ed was really impressed by the tux.

So Ed was honored and I was relieved. I set up my tripod and fastened my camera to it. I planned to take many pictures, hoping to get at least a few good shots of what I hoped was going to be a special occasion. The longer Ed was at Alois, the more I felt photographs would be important to me later.

Don sat down on the tan metal folding chair I'd placed in front of Ed. He scooted the chair even closer, only about two feet from Ed, and began playing a Strauss waltz. The sounds were lively and luscious. I watched as his bow flew up and down, his fingers danced around, and his head snapped back on the high notes. Ed looked captivated. His eyes glued to Don, he had a rapt expression on his face and moved in time with the music.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he boomed in his deep bass voice while clapping at the end of the waltz. "That was the most beautiful moo-sic I have heard ever in my entire, very long, and I emphasize very long life!"

Don thanked him and began playing a Romanian piece, as I'd previously requested. It was a Rhapsody by Enesco. Ed smiled broadly but I couldn't tell if he realized it was music from his homeland.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he called out again, clapping like before. "That was the most beautiful moo-sic I've heard," he said. "Ever," he added. "I don't have words to say how happy I am that you are playing just for me."

"Thanks," Don said. "I'm glad you liked it."

"My father played the violin," Ed said, "but not nearly as well as you."

Ed reached his hand toward Don and Don grasped and held it.

"What did you teach when you were a professor?" Don asked.

"I don't r-r-remember," Ed answered. Then he added, "Honestly, I'm not even sure I was a professor."

Then since there were so many Gypsies in Romania and that was part of Ed's culture, I asked Don to play some Gypsy music. He played Bizet's Habañera from Carmen, and Ed sang along, jabbing his index finger in the air in time with the music.

"Tra la la-la, la la la la-la," he sang, a big smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he shouted when Don finished. "That was the most beautiful moo-sic I have heard ever in my entire very long, and I emphasize very long life," he said for the third time. "You are the most talented 'moo-si-cian' I have ever heard, and I r-r-really mean it from my heart -- it's not just words from my lips."

Don played half an hour longer, the music interspersed with more hand holding and small talk. When the concert was finished, I asked Don to sit on the sofa beside Ed so I could take a picture of them. Ed put his hand on Don's arm and I snapped the photo. After that Don tried to rise to leave but he had trouble because Ed wouldn't turn loose of his arm. Finally Don extricated himself.

"When are you coming back?" Ed asked.

Since Don didn't know to say "tomorrow," I jumped in.

I always said I'd come back "tomorrow" because it made Ed happy and I knew he'd never know the difference.

"He's coming back tomorrow," I said, winking at Don, hoping he'd get the message.

"Oh! How wonderful! I'll be here waiting for you."

Don left after many more good-byes, more excited compliments from Ed and thanks from me. I felt gratified I'd been able to do something that had brought Ed so much joy.

Some of the photographs were adorable. They captured the happiness of a man who had lost so much, yet was still capable of great joy. He was a man who wouldn't remember the concert the following day, but he thoroughly enjoyed every second of it as it happened. In the pictures Ed looked as happy as I'd ever seen him. One of them showed them sitting on the sofa, with Ed putting his hand on Don's arm, as proud as if he were sitting next to the President or the Queen of England or something.